Samuel de Loxely's Story
by Uplifted
Summary: Even as they defeated Prince John, Robyn's lady was already carrying his son. As he grows and learns to be his own person, Sam finds himself in Sherwood Forest being taught that it is what you do with your life that defines you as a man.


Robyn Hude:

Samuel de Loxely's Story

The midwife soothed a poultice of comfry and willow's bark down the patient's throat, crooning monotnous noises of comfort to the aching lady. Rivets of hot, sticky sweat trailed down her temple, as her whimpers of pain were drowned by the lusty wail of a newborn. Smiling in silent, weary satisfaction, the aged midwife passed the still-tender infant, who was still squalling loudly. In the hall, a cloaked man stopped the gore-smeared medicine woman, and inquired of the woman's health, and that of the child's.

"Forsooth, she and the babe fair well." She whispered, then hurried on to her next patient, straining not to look back at the travel worn man. His crinkled eyes stared back, and when she knew she'd been caught staring, she winked, and continued on.

"Mathilde." The man called, as he opened the door and stepped inside. But she was already slumbering peacefully, the now-quiet baby bubbling in her arms, the labor draining her reserves of strength. After their battle with John Lackland to return England to the proper ruler, she had been listless, always wandering her estates as if in search of something. Now the man knew why. After being absent some good six months, it was now high summer. The weeds and bog marshes stank, but the forrests were ripe with greenery and plummage. And so the man known as 'Robyn Hude' had traveled with his band of brothers, accosting the various Abbot, and taunting his nemesis, the foolishly dangerous Guy of Gisborn. But now, seeing his lady-love, the Lady Mathilde, sleeping alone with her-their-son, he wondered if this life was still the best way he could serve the Lord. Murmering a blessing, he sank to his knees in front of his son, smiling grimly when he met eyes that matched his own.

"Ah, methinks you've enough excitement t'day, son. And your poor mother. What have ye to say on the matter?" His smile softened as the little one grabbed his large finger with one of his own small hands. Waving delightedly, Robert de Loxely could tell that his son would be a cheerful, loving boy. But his warmth would be overshadowed by the cold stone of the nobility. It was in the wild and fresh greenwood that Robyn had found his happiness, and he was suddenly sure that his son would be the same.

The manor of the Lady Mathilde was made of morter and stone, a fortress bestowed to her by an Uncle. Unfortunately, the manor also came with the land, and the Lady was besiged by noble and yeomen who demanded her hand, as well as a dowry. Of course, the child had changed that, but there would soon be speculation as to the father's identity.

As Robyn stood to leave, his deer-skin boots whisper soft against the harsh stone floor, he felt a small hand grab the course material of his outer tunic. Turning, expecting to see his infant son crooning at him, he was slightly startled to see his lover half-leaning out of bed to catch at his shirt. Smiling rakishly at Mathilde, he sat on the edge of the bed, his hands softly stroking hers. The baby was nestled in the crook of her other arm, and was settling down for his first sleep. Staring at the boy, Robyn felt a sharp bile running through his veins.

"Mathilde." He demanded, looking in to her painfully brown eyes. "Why did you not warn me? Tell me? That I now have a son…a family?" His face furrowed into thought, as he watched her intently.

She turned away while answering. "What good comes from that? I bore the babe, and I shall raise him. He is your son, Robyn, but he is also mine own. Would you take him from me?" Her voice, cold as springwater, leapt at Robyn, and he could barely hear himself to answer.

"Because he is our son."

Genuinely surprised, Lady Mathilde turned once more, back to her lover. Robyn read the question in her eyes, and tried to answer it in his own way. He pushed the hood from his curled straw locks, seeing the Lady smile softly as she did so.

"Yon Lady laughs." He said, producing a soft cry from the woman.

"Trickster knave. Do you mean to tell me you will give up your romping with Little John and the others who look to you for leadership against the swine of the aristocracy?" Her waning strength tugged at her lips, making a truly weary smile. "I believe it not a minute."

Sadness washed over him. He could not forever give up his fellows. He was a wolf's head, an outlaw anyone could kill for a bounty of at least one hundred gold piece. He would not for his very life bring this kind of danger to his lady. Or now, his son.

"Mathilde." He said it with such a tone of finality that she sighed away her remaining strength, and reached for him. She clasped her small, pale hand in his great one tightly, even, frightened. "Raise him as you like. But take no man as your husband, and no young colt foolish enough to entice you as a lover. I will wait for yon babe to grow, and when he is done with the swaddling, I will teach him what he needs to ken to survive in this world."

Small, inescapable shivers wracked her body as she cried for the only man she understood, the only one she accepted. He kissed away her tears with a ghost of a smile, stood, and silently swept out of the room. Only the butterfly brushes against her skin were proof that she had not imagined him out of post-labor pains.

"Goodbye, Robyn Hude, mine own Lord." She whispered, before sleep took her once again, and a maid took her child to his own cradle.

Robin ducked out of the castle, hiding his bright flaxen curls by a stagskin hood that completely shadowed his face. His soft boots carried him swiftly away from his family, and he re-entered the woods, though they were not his own. Barnesdale Woods were a far cry from Sherwood, but Lady have mercy, he would reach Little John and the others in less than a week's end.

Time passed swiftly for the Lady Mathilde; a little too swiftly. As an owl silently ghosts to its prey, so did Sam's time at the manor pass, though it was far too loud and cheerful to be compared to the quiet haunting of a death bird. With every new lesson from the tutor came another picnic near the wild of the wood, with every new escapade into forbidden areas came the gap-toothed grin that so reminded the Lady mother of days of her youth. Often servants could find the mother embroidering, and her son napping at her feet, or lap, so close were the two. The years did not change the bond, rather, the time warped it into something strong and beautiful. But every night, it was tested, and there was a weak link in the chain of love that bound son to mother.

For every night, she would tell him stories of his father.

When he was younger, it was the nonsensical little things that younger children so enjoy. When he grew older it was all the sword fights and bravery, chivalry that one could strive for. And when he was a teenager, it was the realism at last. The cold, and damp of the forest, and unforgiving foresters, clergymen and nobility. His father was an outlaw, forsooth. But the fun and games of it that Mathilde so desperately strived to beat out of the stories stubbornly stayed lodged in Sam's mind; that to be an outlaw was great sport.

With his mother's resigned blessing, Sam took up the sports of the genteel. Sword play and horse racing, he learned it all. The great instruments of war were taught to him by his uncles, home from the crusades at last. Falconry became one of his favorite pastimes, and he even learned to use the bow and arrows, outlaw weapons.

As Sam grew older, his carefree and grinning face subsided into a blank mask, to be worn when visitors came, and anyone brought up the subject of his ancestry. Who had sired him was great gossip in the towns that his mother held, but Sam wouldn't stand to see her name tarnished in front of him. He came to be known as the Duel Prince, because of his quick tongue and quicker blade during the bouts. He spoke little to the people around him, and only his mother really ever understood the boy. And so it came to be Sam's sixteenth day of birth.

It was a hot, steamy summer's day, as the like hadn't been seen for nigh on twenty years. The trees were arched greenly, shedding soft shade wherever the sun bid them. A gentle zephyr calmed the cows and the peasants from their muddled thoughts, though Sam knew very little about the individual peasants in his mother's land. It was midmorning, a few hours after the breaking of the fast, and he stood under the shaded foliage in Barnesdale wood. This very wood reached all the way to Sherwood, some few leagues away. There, it was said, dwelled the famed Robyn Hood, and the merry men who accompanied him on his jaunty adventures.

"My, but it's a glorious day to be alive." Sam murmered, his throaty voice matured and steady. He smiled to the trees, and the familiar sight of sharp blue eyes folding in happiness made the trees speak in the wind that rustled their leaves with a quiet sigh of remembrance. Birds called to each other in the wilderness, and Sam could hear the movement of a dozen other forest animals waking or settling to sleep.

"Are you jus' goin' to stand there all day, fellah?"

Jerked abrubtly from his thoughts and his ears, Sam stared in annoyance at the country lass who had interupted him. A dairymaid, by the like, and with a saucy little lip of attitude to her. Sam ignored her, instead choosing to walk deeper into the forest.

"'Ey!" She called in indignation, glaring down the path at his receeding form. "Whe' ya goin'?"

Once more, he ignored her, and this time, she walked away. After glancing repeatedly behind him, he sighed in relief, and hoisted himself into a broad oak.

"Bright Lady, that was a close one." He muttered under his breath, clenching and unclenching his sweaty palms. Girls had been trying to get him to talk for two years now, and it was almost about the most mundane things. They made him nervous just to be around them, and it bothered him that they affected him so. A great warrior, with the bloodline of his, shouldn't have been driven to larks just by the gibbering of a comely lass.

He sighed and shook his head. He would never understand the young men who were forever talking about tumbling. As his mother so fondly claimed, Sam was a 'late-bloomer'.

Cinching his ornate belt tighter, to stop the glorious cloth from spilling out, he tucked a dirk from the protective place in his boot to the strap in his tunic. He was wandering into the woods, and wouldn't do well to be taken unaware. Glancing at the cloth, he smiled. His clothes, made by his lady mother and the seamstresses of the manor, were beautious and comfortable. Whorls of the dove gray and blue that were the colours of his family decorated his breast, where a breastplate would be, if he had been a knight. He was, however, just an indulged Lady's son, edging closer to having the title 'Bastard' hung over his head. If his father didn't return soon, to proclaim his lady's innocence and his son's heritage, then….

Sam didn't like to dwell on such thoughts.

So he lept to the forest trail, and quickened his step, forcing his eyes away from the treacherous trail to the unfolding glories that was the woods of Barnesdale. As he continued on his merry way, stopping to pick a leaf or herb that he recognized, and once picking a buttercup, he slowly began to notice the growing silence of the forest, a shifting in the trees that made him uneasy. Walking as he was, he made an easy target for bounty hunters, bandits, and any other that defied the King's Law to live in the woodland. Just as his fluttering heart was urging him to turn home, his shoulder collided into another's. Someone who had almost appeared, so quiet were his footsteps.

"Oy, you!" Sam cried in frustration, stopping short to upraise the stranger, who was only a mite taller than the teenager. "Watch where you're goin'."

"Is that how a mother teaches her son kindness?" asked a pithy voice from under the beige hood of poorly spun cloth. Sam spun, his hand resting lightly on his sword, strapped to his side. It may have been a light foiling rappier, but the heavy broadsword was too much for him, and this light sword could still inflict injury.

"Watch your tongue, traveler. My mother is none of your tidings." He growled, dimmly noticing the returning sounds to the forest, but the unease leaving him irritable and jumpy.

"Pardon a wandering monk, good my lord," it sounded as though the voice was being choked out, by fear maylike. "Wouldst thou need a confession hearing? I have been trained by my good teacher and Lord to comfort those with sin."

Sam studied the man steadily. Invite a stranger to his house? Not likely, though his mother would welcome the traveler with open arms. Yet…

"Why are you traveling through the Greenwood, stranger? Surely you know that bandits and fools alike do not mix here." Sam asked, leaning against a youthful tree.

The monk raised his face, shadowed by the cowl that covered his head, and spoke sincere words of truth.

"I have come a long way, by the only road I know well."

Sam stared in skeptiscism, but nodded, making sure the monk was not watching when he kicked at a tree and grumbled at women, mothers, and wandering monks. Not in that precise order, by the Lady.

The tramp back to the manor seemd to take thrice as long as normal, mainly because the monk kept tripping over twigs and getting his over-long robes caught on brambles and briars. Sighing in frustration, Sam simply waited once more, as the monk wrestled with one particularily quarrelsome branch. As he tugged, his hood slipped a bit farther away from his face, and Sam found himself straining to get a glimpse of the mystery man's face. All he could see, for a slight instance, was a lock of curling, gold hair. But as soon as he realised his mistake, the monk straightened, yanked his clothes away, and continued walking.

But, studying his gait, Sam found it to be simply too assured of a man's walk to belong to a pious monk. Frowning and setting his shoulders, Sam led the way back to his mother's holdings.

Servants and peasants were hard at work in the fields surrounding the manor, and at the house, preparing for his birth of day feast, likely gaining an extra copper or two from his mother for the extra work, too. Commoners worked for bread, after all, while the nobles protected the commoners, and the bread. It was the order of the world, the young man mused, as the stranger cordially greeted the many inhabitants of the manor as they walked through the large stone walls that surrounded, and protected, the inner houses that made up the manor.

Barely passing a glance to the hardworking mothers and young sons that toiled for him, the young Lordling made his way up the steps to the great hall, where his mother normally was during this time of day. The noon sun rose directly above in the sky, and many were taking their midday meal with the standard fare.

His mother was indeed sitting at the long table that was used to greet grand visitors, and was sifting through peasants and common workers who were speaking to her under steward, gabbing about news, events, and the progress on most everything under the Lady Mathilde's jurisdiction.

"Sam!" She cried in greeting as she spotted his fair head in the crowd. She stepped lightly down to meet him, and kissed his cheek formally on both cheeks. He accepted the greeting steadily, but ended it promptly, and pushed forward the monk brusquely.

"Mother, I've found you a vagrant to feed and house. I ken how oft you wish to feed the starved, and here's a prime candidate; yon wandering monk and I met in the greenwood."

Several of the workers shrank away, knowing of how the lady mother would react. With an honored guest in her prescence, she stayed her anger, but the flush in her cheeks belied how much she disliked having her son gadding about with the flowers and trees.

"Welcome, weary traveler. You have journeyed far to reach us?" she inquired, looking calmly to her guest, and quietly summoning servants to remove him of his chaotic clothing. The man allowed his robe to be taken, but his heavy tunic and hood were left alone, and he was lead to a seat at the long table. Sam stood by warily, and signaled for the servants and workers to leave; it was high time to partake of the meal that the Cook had labored over; good brown bread and braised pheasants.

As the lady waited paitently for the man to answer her question, the monk studied her closely. His eyes raked her face, seeing the dimpled crows eyes, the strands of grey that marred the dark hair of Mathilde. Her grace and form were unrivaled in her holdings, and many young stableboys had professed to being in love with the lady. But fair few saw the aging lady who was only nearing thirty winters. The monk sighed, and reached out a calloused hand to pluck at the lady's hand, before he finally summoned the strength of heart to firmly press her hand to his heart.

"Hello, Mathilde, bright one."

She froze at the name, at the tone of the monk who sat before her, and his intimate caress of her personage. Sam, who hovered at the edge of the table, strode forward with heavy steps, and hurled the monk's headware away from the disguised figure, revealing at last the lithe, coiled form of a spry man who looked no older than thirty.

Sam quickly drew his rappier, but his mother beat him to the quick, by embracing the stranger with a strangled cry. Alarmed by his mother's tears, he stepped back, away from the intimate scene.

"Robyn." Came Mathilde's strangled voice from somewhere around the area of the man's chest, for she verily clung to him with all her might. Likewise, the man who must have been Robyn Hude smoothed her hair, and shushed her weeping gently with a tender tone.

Sam felt as if the Blacksmith's aged horse had struck him in the bowels with a hearty kick. His father, this timid, pious monk? But with a desperate flourish, the man threw away his namesake, the hood that hid his face. Mathilde's eyes glinted with amour at the sturdy man who stood bravely before Sam. With a bright wink, Robyn vaulted downward, and knelt before his mother.

"Good my love, I have returned, as I spoke so long ago. I promised, and so did you. I see you living in lonely memory, and it pulls at my heart, Lady." His face shone with merriness, but the downward pull of his mocking mouth hinted at his displeasure at his love's endurance. She had lived alone in her manor so long, with only her son for true comfort.

He glared at the surroundings, as if in a bid to make things suddenly better. Sam, studying this stranger – he refused to call him 'father', glanced wearily at his mother, with a silent question.

Mathilde didn't notice, or didn't care. She was too content to be held by Robyn again to pay attention to her teenaged son. Robyn, on the otherhand, grinned, and stepped back from the loving embrace.

His tanned face shone with enthusiasm as he motioned for the young lordling to draw closer, until father bowed to son.

"Why young peacock, has your mother told you aught of the doings of the fair folk, those that reside in the merry Sherwood Forest?" He continued on, without waiting for an answer. "For as soon as you'd grown out of a mother's embrace, I was to take you on my knee." He glanced up and down his son, judging with one rising eyebrow.

"And what a large knee it must be."

With a crowing laugh, he turned back to Mathilde, and swept in her a jolly hug.

"And what a fine lad such a fine lady has brought from the cradle. You've done yourself justice Mathilde." The matronly lady blushed, and swept over to her former lover.

"And you have come to steal him from me, haven't you, Robyn of the Hude?" She asked coyly, pressing a firm finger to his chest. Her eyes reproached him. "You have left me tending lads and swaddling him, while you take him for high adventure and toil? You gain, and I lose? Robyn, you are a fool, and I was a fool to believe in you." Her words were harsh, but her face was only happy; happy to see her friend and confidante once more.

Sam stood stunned. He was to be taken away, and live with the drudges, the peasants and breadmakers? He spluttered indignantly, and his undignified behaviour caught the eye of his sire. Raising an inquisitively furrowed brow, even Sam could see the doubt in his father's gaze. It sent a spiralling feeling of coldness and a clenching feeling that left a painful mark in his abdomen.

It wasn't fear, though. It was something far, far worse. The aching in his belly was the feeling of disgrace, of loneliness, and utter loss. He was not measureable in his father's gaze.

Bloody hell, he hadn't even known his father for sixteen years!

"Sir!" said Sam clearly, the first words he had spoken since his father had revealed himself. "You are choosing my way for me? Does this not go against everything you yourself have fought against with the previous High King?" He nearly demanded the question of Robyn, and watched as surprise flitted across his featuers, as well as those of his mother's face.

"I come for you, as father to son, to train you in my stead, with my band of-"

"Band of Merry Men, yes, I have heard the stories spoken." Sam interjected quietly, with a tig ht rein on his temper.

"Come you two." Mathilde said quickly, with power behind her words; "Prepare yourselves with a feast. Sam, you knew your father was coming, though I neglected to tell you when. Treat him with the respect he deserves him, and I'll see you off in the morning." Sam ballooned with anger, his face tinged with red.

"So, my life is to be decided by a thief and my scandeled mother?" He spoke swiftly, with anger, but only Robyn glared, as if to stop the words that came tumbling out of his young mouth. "For nigh on sixteen years, mother, you have raised me to your liking, and I have only heard stories of this, this man!" He gesticulated towards the disguised man. "And now you tell me to abandon all I hold near and dear to find myself alone in a desolate, uneducated waste of land. I should bloody well think not!"

"Watch your mouth, sir!" cried the Robyn. "Or I shall watch it for you. Has your mother raised a cur in her stead, as you so describe? Methinks you don't deserve this place as your right. You're coming with me, lad, whether you want to or not. Tis who you are in this world, not what you do, and in my world, you'll learn to do what's right by others, not just your simple, lordly self!"

"Gentlemen! Sam!" spoke the worried mother, but the son merely brushed away his mother's concern, and swept away to his chambers. Robyn turned furious eyes on the wall, and then kicked at it. After cursing softly, he turned towards Mathilde.

"Has he always been so blockheadedly dodgy, Mathilde?"

She answered him with a wry look. "And have you yourself never been dodgy, Robyn?"

He blushed lightly, but looked away and sighed.

"What troubles you, Rob?" She asked as her gown whispered against the stone floor. She sat on the stool nearest him, and he stood near her, comfrted by her simple prescence.

"Oh Mathilde, dearest. I am a father in name only. The lad does not know me, and already we clash. Am I wrong in coming to take him? Should we not let him simply remain your son?"

"And leave me with the rest of raising him? I love the boy dearly, but he needs a father in his life more than a mother now, Robyn." Her tone was quite chilly, and Robyn peered down into her face. His own face blanched at her pinched look, and he swept her into a bone-grinding embrace.

"Oh Mathilde." He said tenderly, as he had to no other woman, wench or otherwise. He brushed at her pearly skin, and simply held her, relishing in the feeling of contentment that neither had found for almost twenty years.

Meanwhile, Sam was stalking through the halls, grumbling and spitting fire.He finally took shelter in his room, and proceeded to ramage through, knowing his bed, wooden chairs, and candles to the floor.

The next morning, the sleep-deprived son met the equally sleep-deprived father, who had once again donned the disguise of a wandering monk. Neither spoke as they broke their fast, but continued to eat in stony silence. Finally, Robyn perked up with a mouth full of poached eggs and crisp brown bread, and glanced despairingly towards his son.

"Well then." He said slowly, trying not to poke fun at the stoic lad. The teen glared at the man, and continued to eat his breakfast in silence. Robyn sighed dramatically, and with practised ease lobbed a piece of bread at his son.

"Don't waste food, monk!" Sam said cuttingly, and Robyn began to get angry.

"How the bloody hell does your mother expect us to travel to Sherwood and back as comrades if you won't even acknowledge me as a father, boy?" Robyn asked softly, his eyes hard.

Sam didn't even look at the man when he responded. "Because to acknowledge you as a father, means you have cared about your son." And he stood, and strode away before his welling eyes could spill over.

Robyn cursed softly under his breath, not noticing the boys emotion. The boy was right, but being a bullheaded ninny about it. After a quick thought, he went after Sam, who was heading towards the woods.

Sam himself didn't really know where he was going. His feet led him as his thoughts wandered. A cowherd cursed him as he seperated the group of cows, but Sam merely waved in response. Watching the echange, Robyn's brow quirked.

The father and son slipped silently into the woods, as Mathilde watched from a high window in the manor. There was no glass, but the wind wasn't that steady yet. She smiled softly, hoping that Robyn would remember the packs that she had provided. She knew the two wouldn't be back for a while.

"Stop following me." Sam muttered under his breath as he caught sight of a shadow on the bark of one of the trees. Robyn ducked into the branches of a tall oak, and shaded himself from view. After cautiously making sure his son was not watching, Robyn continued, though in the branches, as a squirrel.

Sam slouched dejectedly, and suddenly kicked a stone fiercely.

"It's not fair, Lady take it!" He growled, and sat suddenly, pulling his sword out of the way so as to not impale himself. "He's what I've been _waiting_ for! He's what I've always wanted as a father." He cradeled his head in his hands as he softly spoke, and Robyn had a hard time catching everything that was said. "But what about Mother? What happens to her if son becomes father? Or…" He trailed off, staring sadly at the ground. His father had just as suddenly come into his life, and it irked Sam very much that he had disguised himself from his son. His mother had been able to recognize him, and hadn't even seen his face, but his blood-son hadn't even known. Sam knew he was being a foolish boy, but he also knew he didn't care. He had never had a father before, and Robyn was as sharp and keen as a new dagger. What kind of earthen, wood-living father would want a 'Duel Prince' as a son? With a quick temper, and quick blade, he would never be the kind of man his father would want him to be.

Leaping quietly from the tree, Robyn landed with a soft _thump_ on the leaf-strewn ground. He watched his son, lost in his own thoughts, and gently laid a calloused hand on the boy's shoulder. He felt sam flinch, and Robyn moved away, only to sit near Sam.

"So boy-"

"Sam."

"So, Sam. Running were you?"

He gave a dirisive snort. "From you? Not likely, Robyn."

The blonde man smiled, and slowly patted his son's shoulder. "You know, there's adventure enough in Sherwood, but there's death and frolicing and cold too, lad. I'll understand if you don't want to learn my world, and want to stay in your mother's."

Sam looked at him incredulously. "It's the same world, Robyn. You just view everything from different points." Robyn looked a bit startled at the Sam's words, but a nod and a growing smile gave Sam hope.

"So it is, Sam-lad."

"I'm not a lad." He said stubbornly, and the indignant look on his face made Robyn laugh. The fair archer stood, and offered Sam a hand. The teenager stared at the offered hand for a good long time, waiting to see when it would disappear. When it didn't, he looked up to Robyn's paitent face, and took the hand, hauling himself up. While he was brushing off his tunic and dirt-brown hose, he noticed that Robyn was already going through packs that had appeared on his back, as if from midair.

Grinning, Robyn said, "Your mother's a smart one, if you didn't know. She packed some fare for us." Sam stretched a small grin, but turned instead to the path ahead.

"Does this lead to Sherwood, Robyn?"

Looking up from a hank of cheese and cold bread, Robyn nodded, and stuffed the food into his mouth before catching up to Sam. The younger boy was already learning that the legendary archer had a prodigious apitite.

The two traveled in quiet for some time, the only seperation of time being the elongating shadows. Shadows of deep green ran through the forest, and they startled a roe buck once, but other than those encounters, there was little life in the Greenland that day. Sam walked warily, on the balls of his feet, incase of an attack. Robyn seemed utterly at ease, a stark contrast to his companion. The two traveled far, and by nightfall, they had cut their journey in half. Excitement had begun to grow in Sam, and he could hardly sleep, but Robyn was lulled to sleep easily, as he was almost home. At sunrise, the two continued on.

Large, dark eyes watched the two travelers from high in the air. A smooth face, with a ring of fluttering dark hair, arched in curiosity as the two travelers traveled under the tree the creature stood on. Bony, awkward arms clad with scraps and mangled pieces of wayward cloth adorned the strange human who watched Robyn Hude and the unknown boy make their way down a deer path, hardly descernable unless you knew where it was. The sun rose high, and noontide was upon them, a not-so good time for the shadowy being in Sherwood.

As the stranger followed behind the two, it soundlessly began climbing down, going lower with each tree, until the stranger was walking upright behind the two, it's horned and toughened feet making no noise on the carpet of pine needles and moist loam on the ground. Green and brown light swarmed through out the wood, providing excellent coverage for the stranger, whose clothes turned out to be awkwardly stitched pieces of greenery.

Robyn turned a lazy eye behind them, and noticed the oddling. Utterly surprised, he cursed out loud, and stopped in the middle of the trail.

"Who are you, creature, that you so sneak up on me?" Robyn asked, his blue eyes cold as flint. The creature stepped back, and motioned slowly.

"I…mean…no…threat…" came a creaking voice, sounding rusty from inactivity and misuse. It grated on Sam, and he menacingly unsheated his sword. Comically looking to the heavans, Robyn rolled his eyes playfully.

"The lad will defeat yon demon with a rappier. Oh, how the Bright Lady has blessed me with such a youngster." Sam blushed, but didn't relent. Likewise, the sooty and dirty stranger did not either.

"I'm…" the stranger coughed froggily, and spat before continuing. "I come from Nottingham." Suddenly, Robyn was no longer laughing, and the steel had returned to his gaze.

"So, the sheriff has employed babes to do his dirty work. I grant you you're a marvelous spy, young thing, but you're no good alone. Have you brought an army to me?"

Sam glanced askance at his father, marveling at his strong tone, and fortitude to act, or be, brave in front of such a threat.

"You misunderstand, Robyn of Sherwood…!" pleaded the stranger, who stepped into stronger light.

"Oh I understand perfectly lad. You've brought Nottingham's army down on me!" And the archer moved forward to strike the threat.

"Stop!" rang the stranger's raspy voice through the forrest, startling the wildlife into silence. In the silence, Sam listened closely for sounds of an army; horses whiffing, tack jangling, or men coughing.

There was utter silence.

Robyn watched guardedly as the stranger motioned that he was unarmed. He walked closer, and Sam could make out a grubby blue tunic covering his chest, and hose so ripped that they deserved to be called rags, as well as vines and plants, covering the boy.

"I be from the village, sir." The stranger started, his voice trembling like a young boy's, and his candid stare flickered from robyn to sam, and then towards the ground. "I be orphaned by the sheriff. I war wantin' to journey wiv you." His face showed his fear, and Robyn was tempted to believe the lad. "I ken nothin' of the bloody sheriff, I swears by the Green and Bright Lady, sir."

Robyn glanced at Sam. Sam glanced at Robyn. They both shrugged, and Sam grimaced, disliking how much of his action mimiced his father.

"You may come with us. But if we fall into the sheriffs hands, you are the first to die." The stranger gulped, and nodded. Trust wouldn't come that easily.

The three continued on their way, and when they set up for camp that night, it was with the expectation that tomorrow, the woods would melt into familiar surroundings for Robyn, and that the three would be 'home'.

After waking and walking, they were.

That afternoon, Sam was introduced to Little John, Robyn's first friend after being outlawed, Much the Miller's son, caught after killing the King's deer, Rafe, Will Scathelock, master of the knives, and countless other Merry Men. Sam began to scowl after a while, and his annoyance grew when the nameless boy that they had picked up wouldn't leave him alone. The two traversed Fountain Dale, a large meadow with blossoming flowers and herbs, with a large waterfall and stream running through it. Hills surrounded the area, and trees were abundant in the woods. It was still high summer, and the days were long. The boys found themselves trying to be useful; or rather, the nameless one was, and was trying to catch fish in the stream. After throwing one carp at the sulky Sam, the boy settled into the icy river, ignoring the way his hands grew purple and swollen from the water's temperature.

Eventually, five large fish were gasping for water on the bank of the stream, and Sam was glaring at the boy as he sharpened a stick to stab through the fish. Suddenly, the unknown boy turned to Sam.

"Are you hungry?" he asked with a high voice, squeaking a bit. Sam just stared at him until the boy repeated his question. Then, he nodded dumbly. The stranger gather twigs and dry leaves, and struck flint against stone until a rain of sparks on the dry kindling blazed up.

How humiliating! He reflected as the warmth and light washed over him, thinking on his unseemly behaviour towards the stranger, and wondering what he was doing now, with that knife that looked….

Looked exactly like Robyn's?

"You're a theif!" Cried Sam, as he spied the dagger. The oddling glared at him to hush, and then cut through the belly of the fish. Sam turned a pale green, and shielded his eye's from the view, as he heard scales being stripped away from the carcass of the fish. After loping off it's head, the stranger looked around, and grabbed a fistful of leaves from a nearby tree.

"Dock leaves." He grunted briefly, before settling down near the fire, and wrapping the headless, tail-less fish in the leaves. Then, he thrust it into the fire's embers, being cautious near the hot flames.

After half an hour of silence, the two heard a bird's call shrill over the forest. A robyn's call, it sounded like. Sam stood, almost unthinkingly in front of the sitting boy, and studied the forest's layout. From what he could see, the trees were shifting in wind, and birds were calling. Everything seemed fine, and no one was near.

Then a shod hoof shrilled for silence. A mounted stallion charger strode on the large trail that twined by Fountain Dale, with a large, hairy man riding. Another steed came into view, and the heavy broadsword hanging from the horses saddle looked well-worn. Then, Sam heard the strange boy gasp with horror.

Narrowing his eyes, Sam saw a bloody head attached to one of the saddles. The two were bounty hunters.

The strange boy threw heavy, moist dirt onto the fire, burying the fire, and the cooking fish. The scent of woodsmoke stopped the two bounty hunters, and Sam forced No-Name to crouch into hiding in the bracken near the stream, where the four other fat fish were lying on a spit, ready to be taken back to Robyn's camp.

Surprising Sam, the no-name gave a robyn's call, swift and steadily, though it inevitably drew the bounty hunter's near.

"Why'dja bring 'em down on us, dunce?" growled Sam, as he strode out from the hiding place, his naked sword gleaming with soft drops of water from the splashing stream, and the light that reflected off the liquid. His stormy face glared down at the bounty hunters, who were built stocky, but short. They laughed at the boyishly clear chin, with no beard, and brought out their long, heavy swords. With those sharp, hacking tools, their opponents would have to be made of steel to survive. But Sam was light and quick, dancing between the two until he had cut the tendons on their arms. Their weapons fell to the ground, and both screamed with fury. Before they could pounce on the unaware Sam, goose-fletched arrows plunged themselves into their backs.

Making awful choking sounds, the two dropped to the forest floor, and Sam looked to see Robyn's face, white under his healthy tan. He strode quickly to the boys, and grabbed Sam in a tight hug. Trying to scowl, but unable to, Sam merely let his father hold him.

The nameless boy then came out, offering the fish that they had nearely gotten themselves killed over to Robyn, and the gathering members of his outlaw band. Little John took it with a grin, and gave the lad a pat on the shoulder that nearly knocked him to the ground. Sam smirked at the picture, and stepped back from Robyn.

"How about dinner?" he asked owlishly, and the band chortled before leading the two boys away from the corpses, and back to Robyn's Hollow, a clearing in the forest that proveded shelter for the bandits, and safety enough to create a fire. An entire roe deer was roasting on a spit, and brown bread trenchers were being passed to the entire band by those who had prepared the meal. Sam ate ravenously, forgetting that only outlaws ate venison, forgetting that he disliked Robyn, forgetting that he was annoyed with that boy…who wasn't crowding him?

Looking about for the missing stranger, he spotted the boy looking at the dear with a faraway, misty-eyed glance that spoke volumes. Sam grabbed his food, just as Robyn was swooping down to finish it off, and went to sit next to the orphaned lad.

The fish-catcher scooted away from Sam, and Sam blinked in the light.

"Oy, what's with you?" Sam asked with heat, wondering what was wrong now.

"You were nearly killed, that's wot." The lad said, gazing at the fire. Sam spared him a glance, and sighed.

"Eat, before Robyn the Ne'er-Full eats your stuff too." And Sam shoved his food into the lad's hands, and went off into the forest.

Night had long since settled in Sherwood, and the loud cheering of the Merry Men still surrounded the Hollow, as his band held bouts with quarterstaffs, thick walking sticks, and weapons, made of a piece of oak as long as you were. Little John's was taller than most of the outlaws by at least a head. The cracks of wood against wood, and sometimes wood against flesh, made Sam flinch as he huddled under a coarse blanket under a tree. The nameless boy was learning the bow and arrow, and here he was trying to sleep after a long day. Finally, after many fitful attempts at sleep, it came athim in a rush, and he was slumbering peacefully.

The next afternoon, Sam found himself being taught the arts of the quarterstaff, the bow, how to track, how to make signals, how to call like any number of birds, what the signs of the forest were, and how to cook his own food. After two hours of being worked to the bone, he furiously threw his bow down, and stalked off into the forest, fuming at their treatment of him.

An hour later, he found himself hauled back by Little John, and being drubbed senseless until he finally practised with the bow. After two pitiful shots, he cracked an arrow in half, and threw it at Robyn. He then ran, and true to his teachers, hid his tracks artfully.

After climbing a broad maple in full bloom, he hid in the foliage, and silently mocked the outlaws who searched for him.

"You're being an arse." Came a grave voice in his ear.

Biting his tongue with surprise, he nearly gave his position away by falling out of the tree. The nameless boy grabbed his tunic sleeve, and hauled him back into the tree. Sam glared harshly at the boy, and spitefully noted how he had been given the castofs of the other bandits to fully clothe himself.

"So now you're calling me an arse, woodscolt?" He spat, and the dark eyed boy regarded him silently.

"Yes."

Sam's cheeks colored, and he went for the boy's head, preparing to box him in the ears.

"No, lordling," the wide-eyed boy said, as he ducked around the tree to hang upside down, taunting the teen, "Wiv me dirk I could skin ye. And no thanks to yon outlaw, you wouldn't put up a wiff of fight. You're only good wiv your sword."

"You mean with _Robyn_'s dirk, scurvy thief." Scowled sam.

"Aye." Relented the boy, as his eyes narrowed in contempt. He hoisted himself rightside up, and sat in front of sam on a branch thick enough to support them both. The two sat in silence for some time, until the dark-haired imp finally spoke.

"You're bein' a great prat, ye know?" he started, and Sam spluttered with indignance.

"I'm the son of the Lady Mathilde. D'you expect me to toil with the fugitives and outlaws, learn their backwards ways?" He demanded, glaring harshly.

"Ye verily well know who yer wiv, and ken the backwards ways." Countered the boy.

" I refuse to allow myself to become a swine like the rest of you peasants." Sam said snobbishly, and turned just in time to collide with the fist from the boy.

With barely controlled anger, the boy spoke; "Ye be no shoat. Ye be a lad, an' belong on yer Mam's knee, if ye can' get by wiv yer father's way." Sam's swollen cheek taunted him into silence, and the heavy breathing of the lad came into the quiet.

"Me pa war a swineherd." No-name said suddenly, quietly. Sam looked bored, but paid attention.

"He war a good man. Defended Mam and me 'til the last. Strongest man I ken, and bravest beyond yer shallow ways, Sam. He herded shoats to edges of the woods fer food, saved 'em from marauders an' greedy villagers."

Sam recalled that the boy was an orphan, and didn't say anything. His face was carefully neutral, but a growing sense of foreboding filled his heart. Against his will, his tongue betrayed him.

"What happened to your father?"

No-name glared with tear-filled eyes at Sam.

"He be wiv the Lady, wot else? He war killed by bounty hunters who thought he war a Merry Man. Me Mam went to Nottingham, to the bloody sheriff, an' asked fo' help. He din' gave no help, and Mam, she war shot wiv crossbow for abiden by the rules of love and the Lady, refusin' the hellspawn of a sheriff."

The rustling of leaves followed his story, and Sam's guilet rose as he saw the lad furiously scrubbing his cheeks with his course sleeves.

"What's your name?" he asked suddenly, watching the sniffling boy freeze.

"Ah. Uh." He stuttered, trying to compose himself. Sam waited, watching, until the boy finally got himself under control.

"Tis Mort." He finally muttered, his dirty hair lying in hanks around his grave, tanned face. Sam sighed, and watched the orphan quietly.

"Are you done?" He asked, and then quietly clambored down from the tree. Surprised out of his grief nad anger, Mort followed, pestering Sam with questions and insults.

The abuse continued until they reached the Hollow, where Sam promptly sought out Robyn, and stared. Then, in the quiet of the suddenly watching Hollow, Sam knelt, and apologized, swearing his double allegiance to Robyn Hude, leader of the Merry Man. With a grin, Robyn thwaked the lad on the head, and proclaimed him fit to be taught a yeoman.

The long days went quickly after that, with Sam being taught to survive in the forest, and Mort becoming a part of Robyn band. The boys quickly became close friends, and were taught together. They hunted together, cooked together, and they seperated only to sleep and other, necessary things. Soon, Sam became proficient with the bow, and Mort could knock Much off his feet in Quarterstaffs. The two brought in small game, herbs they recognized for the cookpot, along with the standard fish that seemed to be Mort's speciality. Before long, the summer was waning, and bright oranges began to appear on some of the trees.

It was during a particularily fine day that Sam stumbled onto a path that he had never seen before. With Mort in tow, the two boys walked carefully along the edges, sweeping their quarterstaffs in front of them, to watch out for man traps. The steel traps had become a dangerous nuisance recently, as the sheriff had decided to pick up the pace in his relentless war against the outlaw. Villagers were taxed twice as hard, and Robyn thieved twice as much, especially from the local Abbot, who had grown fat on his own indulgences.

"Oy, Sam?" called Mort, who walked a little ahead of the taller boy. Sam looked up from his examination of an herb, and walked carefully to his friend. The long days practising with heavy weapons and exercising constantly had transformed Sam from a fit young lad to a spry, hardy young man, with enough muscle and brains to defend himself, if need be. Robyn had been watching his son closely, and had been immeasureably proud of his son during the long summer days.

"Yeh? What's with ya, Mort?" He called, and stopped as he reached his friend. Mort was pointing in the direction of Fountain Dale, hidden by trees, but still known by the roaring of the falls. Straining his hearing, he could hear the whinying of horses, the shrill cry of stallions. Looking perplexed, he motioned for Mort to follow him. Both were clad in camoflaging browns and reds, and blended with the forest as they climbed over uneven scenery to reach one of the hills that over looked the Dale.

A completely black war horse stood impatiently, watching another black horse drink strangely from the water. Mort hissed in surprise, and grasped Sam's arm in warning, but the teen had already seen it; the strange black horse was a man wearing the hide of a dead horse; head, mane and tail. And what was more, there hung a broadsword, cinched to the saddle, and still sheathed. But from the look of things, it was another bounty hunter.

Although neither had made a noise to give them away, the strange hunter swiftly loosed a dirk from his hand, aiming to the left of where Sam and Mort crouched. Though the dagger had passed a bit away from them, the two boys were scared into silence, and hunkered down into the protective bushes that covered them.

"Where ARE you, sirrah!" yelled the man suddenly, in a deeply hoarse voice. "Gallows-bait! I will find you, bastards all!" he was near screaming, and his stallion was near ready to rear.

"Sam." Said a quiet voice in his ear, and he realized that Mort had moved. "Time to be off."

Nodding silently, the two slipped back into the foliage, and nearly ran back to Robyn's Hollow.

Upon their return, they found the Hollow bustling with activity, as the news of the bounty hunter had spread.

"By my troth! Sir Guy of Gisborn returns." Crowed Robyn with a merry laugh that night as the entire band ate to their full. Autumn and Winter was coming, and during the harshness of the cold months, hunting and game would be scarce. Sam had never heard of this Sir Guy before, but from the sniggers among the Men, it appeared that Robyn did.

"What happened? Before?" He asked Rafe, who was standing moodily to the side after loosing a bet to Much.

"Sir Guy rode into the forest with a claim to Robyn's head. He rode out backwards on his horse." Even this normally silent outlaw laughed quietly at the memory.

Sam gazed at the rauctious crowd silently taken to memory when it had been his first night in the woods, and the strange noises hadn't let him sleep. Now, he could sleep even if Little John was drubbing Robyn with his quarterstaff, which didn't happen often.

Yawning quietly, Sam settled into his corner with his warm blanket. After nearly three months with these men and boys, Sam no longer noticed the texture of cloth, but their uses. He no longer noticed how rough his hands were from tree bark, nor did he think of how he looked to his fellows. What mattered now was what he did for the band, how he helped, what he did. It didn't matter that he was the leader's son, either. Robyn treated each member equally, and for that was he loved by his band.

When next Sam opened his eyes, it was to the gray smoke and flinting sunlight that filtered through the trees. His nose stung with the scent of charcoal, and burnt flesh. The roe hadn't been finished off then. Tearing off a piece of bread for breakfast, Sam wandered into the expansive forest, leaving his quaterstaff, bow and arrows, and friends behind. He wandered for a few hours, reveling in the forest's glory, at the dewy grass, at the rowan trees.

"Beautious, isn't it?" asked a quiet voice, and Sam was alert as a deer.

In front of him stood the great horse-man, Guy of Gisborn, nemisis of Robyn Hude, and sword enemy of outlaws. Sam dropped his bread, soft side down. Then, gathering his lost wits, he sent a hawk's shriek into the air, and was already running when Gisborn uncovered his ears.

He scrabbled over loose dirt and rocks, then stopped mid-run, and turned right back around, to charge the sword wielding bounty hunter, knowing that if ran to the Hollow, Robyn's entire band would be found with their hose down. Hopefully, his warning signal of danger would wake at least Mort, and the lad would come help him.

Sam ducked under the wide swing of the sword, and rolled in the dirt. Glancing at the loose earth, he grabbed a handful, and threw his fistful at the eyeslits of Gisborn's armor. Gisborn screeched in discomfort and dropped his sword, leaving him defenseless. Grateful for the break, Sam began to turn around, when Gisborn quickly took a dirk out of his boot, and chucked it straight at him. Sam cursed himself for his stupidity; he had seen Gisborn's amazing luck with throwing objects.

Guy of Gisborn tore off his horsehide armor, and threw it to the ground with a feral growl. Gulping, Sam backed away, crouching low to the ground. He slowly grabbed another fistful of dirt, but just as Gisborn charged, and just as Sam prepared to throw the powdery substance, an arrow sped from above, and implanted itself in Gisborn's left thigh. Screaming in wordless rage, Gisborn threw another knife into the sky, in the vicinity where the arrow had been shot. Sam heard something crash into the bushes around them, but he was too focussed on his breathing, and the heavy beating of his heart. Just as suddenly as the fight had begun; it ended. Robyn swung himself down from a tree, sword withdrawn, and landed silently behind his enemy. Wiping the blade infront of him, Gisborn was dead before his head hit the ground, and rolled to where Sam stood, panting and covered with dust.

Sam took one long look at Gisborn's unseeing gaze, and empty neck, and took off running. He ignored Mort's frantic calling to come back, and Robyn's anxious wondering. He ran blindly, unaware of how close they were to Nottingham way, the road that led straight to Nottingham Village.

It was noontide when someone found him. Little John, one of the better trackers, despite his size, found him crouched in a small glade, where he had thrown himself in the stream, and dragged his weary body to lay on soft, sweet grasses. Coltsfoot grew in abundance, and feverfew dotted the tree-filled landscape. Little John's bulk very nearly filled the small place, and the outlaw spared a glance of pity at the lad, who was too lost-in-thought to realize that he had a visitor.

"Lad." Little John said softly, but he got no response. "LAD!" After his boomnig voice neglected to wake the boy from his mental wandering's, Little John, swung his quaterstaff menacingly.

"SAMUEL!" He yelled, making the earth shake, and birds take to flight. Sam flinched, and rose from his uncomfortable position. He rubbed the back of his noggin in chagrin, then turned to Little John.

"What're you doin' here, John?" He asked, his voice still foggy from his long meditation, his eyes bloodshot from the memories.

"Yer father's a kind man, Sam. A good man. So's why're you a bloody coward when he saves yer life? Bright Lady, even your two-bit friend shot the damned horse-demon. Why'd ye run from yer saviours?" He asked, his voice quiet, rumbling thunder that belied his temper.

"Little John!" he cried, standing to face the Merry Man, "I didn't want to! I want to be brave like he is, and kind as well! But when I saw Gisborn's foul, unstaring eyes, that dead fish look, it just froze me." He couldn't say how it had felt; to stare at a man who had been so full of anger and life one moment, and lying at his feet in utter defeat the next. It had shocked him how quickly life could chage; how quickly he had changed. Now, Sam shared his bread with his band, he talked and laughed and slept and wept when he was sad. It had shocked him to his core, and he had run from the changes he had made.

"But, john." He said, looking behind the giant man, as if expecting to see something. "Where's yon leader? Robyn? And Mort?" He spoke quickly, dread rising in him, and a sharp, bitter taste rising in his mouth. Where was his friend?

"Robyn an' lil Mort have been captured, Sam. Tha's why I'm here to get'cha." John rumbled, and turned around. Sam strode with him, his long legs carrying him easily as John continued. "Nottingham got 'em on the Way."

"We've got to get to Nottingham and save them!" He cried, biting his tongue to stay the terror that rose in him. Little John nodded at his words, but didn't say anything further.

When the two returned to Robyn's Hollow, they found the entire band readying for a battle, arrows being fletched, bow's being strung and unstrong, waxed and readied. Swords were sheathed, but tempers were high. The Hollow was eeriely silent; although the clanging of metal and creaking of stretched leather was loud, very few spoke. Looking at the assembly, Sam's heart swelled with pride; his father could command both the minds and hearts of the outlaws under him.

"Listen up!" bellowed John, as he stepped on the ridge where everyone could see and hear him. "We're to rescue Robyn and the lad Mort," at his words, a quick wave of anticipation held the crowd. "But to do it, we've in need of planning. So's here's the plan, lads. Sam an' I will be the ones looking for Robyn. Will Scathelock, you're our post-guard. If any guards so much as touch one o' our own, plant a steel knife on 'em." Will grinned and bowed, but the smile never reached his eyes.

"Much'll provide a distraction by our good Sheriff, and tis up to you to govern yourselves, lads. No mischif. If I kknew 'twar one o' our own that stopped the rescue, well," he crackled his knuckled, and clutched his immense staff menacingly, "I wouldn't be happy." Some of the members gulped, and other's nodded, but the whole of the group began to assemble costumes. They all threw dirty white tunics of villagers over their green and brown hose, and set about disguising their weapons.

Sam and John turned away from the group, the teen with jellied legs. John looked at him once, and decided to continue on, before the lad fainted.

Later that evening, Sam and Little John set out, disguised as cowherders, and riding stolen roans. They galloped into Nottingham by morning, and gave a shilling to an inn to stable them for a fornight, with ten more shillings to come if they fed the horses properly.

Glancing under the cover of his dark cloak, Sam felt despair worm at his courage. John walked without a moment's pause through the cobble-stoned streets, and Sam had no choice but to follow. The two walked until they reached the main square, where they saw two nooses hanging threateningly on a scaffold. Ignoring the danger, John walked in the early morning shadows to the dungeon gates. As he moved, a country lass came forward, and spied sam. With flirtation in her eyes, Sam began to sweat under her gaze; his palms stuck together uncomfortably, and his neck prickled with unease. With practised disdain, he walked past the indignant girl, and joined his partner. They reached the dungeon's entrance with enough ease, and though they were surprised to find no guards, they slipped in through the wrought iron gates.

The rest of Robyn's men had infiltrated the village of nottingham, and were stationed in separate areas, all leading to the main gates, which would be closed in case of trouble. It would be imperative that the gates were caught in time to allow the band to escape with the rescued.

Litle John was forced to come to a halt after walking a few moments; his girth made it impossible to adequately walk through the narrow corridors. Sam saluted the Merry Man soberly before continuing on alone, following the route on instinct, hoping to find Robyn, and Mort, together.

His instincts led him to Robyn, who was slumped in a straw-covered cell, and looked badly beaten. Sam blessed the Lady that there were no broken bones, and his father was shallowly breathing. Sam slapped his father in te face lightly, worry written clearly in his face.

"Robyn!" He called, watching him stir. With a tenderness that had only bloomed fully lately, he called softly, "father!"

With a start, Robyn was awake, and glancing blearily around his cell. His eyes were dimmer than Sam was accustomed to, but the lad helped him to his feet, and retraced his steps to the anxiously waiting Little John.

"Robyn!" whispered his second-in-command, but the outlaw's low voice was still loud enough to raise alarm amoung the guards.

"Quickly!" hissed Sam, "Take him out of Nottingham! I still have to find Mort, he's in here somewhere!" Little John looked at Sam's steady face, and nodded, before picking up Robyn, and quickly, silently, making his way out of the labyrinth that was the dungeons. Blowing fair hair out of his eyes, Sam hurriedly turned around, and followed his ears; it sounded like some soldiers were guarding someone.

"Hold 'er! His Lordship want's the spitfire alive!"

"Whatcha gonna do if I kick 'er?"

There came a thump, as if a shod foot had kicked something soft, and Sam's pricked ears caught the low moan that emerged from the beaten body. Ignoring sensibility, he lunged through the dungeon doors that he had been eavesdropping behind to find three guards kicking Mort!

"Mort?" cried Sam in shock, as he stared at his friend, who had suddenly taken on a whole new appearance. His scraggly hair that had reached his shoulders was tied back, revealing a sharp, feminine face, and his dark eyes, with long lashes were rimmed with kohl. Sam decided to let explainations wait until later, seeing the bewildered features of the guards change to anger.

Sam yelled a war cry as he unsheathed his long hunting dagger and sliced into the first guard, ignoring the jarring of the blade when he hit bone. Quickly breaking the next guard's neck, Sam kicked the last one in the groin, watching him double over. He grabbed Mort's hand, ignoring the fire that started in his hand, and ran headlong through the dungeons, turning any which way he could, until he was in broad daylight, seeing a nightmare.

Little John felled, Robyn standing over him protectively.

Much, the Miller's Son sprawled in a corner of the square.

The entire band stripped of their weapons, defenseless.

Giving a piercing hawk's scream, the son of robyn hood leapt out of the shadow of the guard house, and leapt in front of his father. Laughing almost insanely, the Sheriff stood on the scaffolding, with the guards at his beck and call.

"Pretty Robin! Your feathers are clipped, your nest broken! And now, what do I have? Why, the young chick of the family; Sam de Hude. Or should I say 'Cloak'?" And the portly man had a belly laugh once more.

The hawk's cry finally faded from everyone's ears, and Sam stood, panting, with Mort, or whoever he, she, it, was standing beside him. With one final blow of energy Sam strung his bow in one fluid movement, and loosed an arrow straight into the Sheriff's neck. The body fell over backwards, and guards glanced once at another, before rushing to see if their master was truly gone.

The outlaws, one and all, rushed to their leader and fallen comrades, swiftly carted them away, and in moments there were no outlaws to be seen; they had all disappeared back towards the greenland.

Mort rode with Sam, and Robyn rode with Will, as Little John was tied to his mount, and the outlaws cantered away from the Nottingham village.

"Why didn't you tell us you were a girl, Mort? Is that even your name?" He asked to the smaller lass, who sat in front of him. For a long while there was no answer, until she spoke up, still in her earthen, squeaky voice.

"Afore you met me, I traveled as a lad. T'was safer fo' me, after me pap an mam war slain. I war an outlaw, wanted by Sheriff an' his men. So I trawled to Sherwood, bu' he warn't there. Then I trawled to Barnesdale, an' I foun' ye. I war scared ye wouldn' let me trawl wiv ye. So I lied. Are ye upset wiv me?" She asked, her country dialect soothing Sam's fears for her safety. His fears melded, and disintegrated; he may have been a late bloomer, but he recognized that his fear of girls stemmed from nervousness on his part. Having a girl for a best friend made things easier, especially since he hadn't known she was a girl. He sighed gratefully, glad that the anxious knot in his belly had eased. He could talk freely now, he knew. Girls were exactly like lads, except…not.

"No, I be not angry with you." He said mockingly, mimicing her style. She swatted him playfully on the arm, before softening, and falling into a quiet slumber against him, her head cradled in the crook of his neck. Robyn rode back to ride side-by-side with his son, and was silent for a while, perhaps thinking of what had transpired between the guards and himself.

"I'm sorry Father." Sam said, shortly.

"What for, Sam?"

"For getting you captured. For getting you beaten. I'm so sorry. If I'd known what would've happened, I would have…" He trailed off, looking at the happy light in Robyn's eyes. "What?"

"You've grown well, Sam-lad. I'm proud to have sired such a man. Your mother'll be right angry with me, but you have become a fine yeoman, and a fine lordling." Sam blushed under the praise, and nudged his horse quicker. The two had a race shortly after that, galloping into the mid-afternoon sky, before Robyn's voice rose over Sherwood;

"By my troth, I'm starving! Where be the bread, lads? The mutton and meats? Be a good lass, Mort, er, Mary-lass, an' pass me that suckling pork!"

The End…

Or not?

* * *

Critisism, flames, comment are all heartily welcome, forsooth. Thanks be to ye for readin'!


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